


take care of the woods

by howshouldibegin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howshouldibegin/pseuds/howshouldibegin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Take care of the woods, and the woods will take care of you.  I love you."</p><p>The stories Stiles' mother told him, about the woods behind his house, were always amazing.  And full of people who didn't always look like people.  Trees that moved, birds that brought luck, otters that understood English, a horse and a dog and a chameleon all with the same eyes.  And the wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take care of the woods

Stiles grew up with the forest as his backyard. Beacon Hills was surrounded by trees, and sometimes it was hard to see the town. Trunks and branches and foliage everywhere. A lot of houses were backed into the woods, and there were even a few families that lived out in the forest. Stiles was weirdly jealous of those families. He spent practically every hour not asleep or at school in the woods behind his house.

His mom spent a lot of time in the woods, too. She grew up in the same house, and spent years in the earthy, calm wilderness. When he was little, she would take Stiles for long walks behind their house, while his dad was at work. When he turned six, and started school, she started letting him go in by himself; she went while he was still at school. On weekends, they'd go together, and she would tell him stories.

Oh, the stories she told him, when he was little.

She taught him the basic stuff, like how to tell the trees apart, and what the different plants were, and birds and other wildlife. What was bad for humans, and what was good for healing humans. What was bad for non-humans, and what was good for healing non-humans.

Stiles loved the stories about the non-humans the most.

Stiles' mom told him about the trees that moved, the ones that laughed with sighing leaves and creaking limbs as she climbed their branches to see the world. When she was seven, she went around to all the moving trees and tied bits of ribbon to their lowest branches, so she could find them again, and so she could tell them apart. She laughed as she placed a hand on an impressive oak tree, with a faded piece of blue ribbon tied to the lowest branch, high above Stiles' reach. She told him that this was the only moving tree that kept her ribbon. She also told him that while this particular oak liked to wander the forest, just like the rest of the moving trees, it liked to stick close to the lake.

Stiles' mom told him about the otters that lived in the lake, which was always clear as glass and always summer warm. The otters would play tag with her, swimming slower when she was it, because she couldn't swim as fast as they could. One in particular would stick close to her, would seek her out if she were within sight of the lake and play with her until she left the forest to go back home. That one in particular understood what she told it the most, and would make sure her clothes were safe from water or wind while she swam with the otters.

Stiles' mom told him about the Bluebird of Happiness, who only showed up every once in a while, but every time she spotted the Bluebird, something amazing would happen. She met her best friend. She graduated as valedictorian. Stiles' dad proposed. She got pregnant with Stiles. But even though she only saw the Bluebird every once in a while, she heard it almost daily, and its song was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She hummed it around the house a lot, and Stiles always felt happy and warm and safe when she did.

Stiles' mom told him about dog, and the goat, and the chameleon, and the _horse_ , of all things to be spotted in the forest of Beacon Hills, all with the same, beautiful eyes. And always wet, or at least damp, even during a dry spell. The horse appeared one summer, and knelt in the stream that fed into the lake, inviting her to get on its back. She was about to, when the otter and the Bluebird and the oak kicked up a fuss, the otter hissing at the horse, the Bluebird flying in its face, and the oak dropping well-placed acorns. The horse snorted in protest, and right before her eyes, turned into a dog. The dog, with a wet underbelly, whined and crept toward her, letting its tongue loll out when she pet it, and barked in agreement when she scolded the others. She said she'd never seen a dog look that smug before.

Stiles' mom told him about the wolf pack, which always struck Stiles as just that little bit more impossible than the rest. Because, really, wolves? There were barely any wolves in all of the States, let alone California. She laughed, and insisted that there was a pack of wolves that lived in the forest. Eleven wolves strong, and all a dusky grey. Some were darker than others, like the adolescent male, he was the darkest, almost black; some were much lighter, like the pack's alpha, a smoke-grey female. She told him about how one day, about a year before she met Stiles' dad, she found an injured wolf cub, the sibling of the darkest wolf, and how she brought the cub food and water, and made it a soft nest out of an old blanket, and tried to clean the gash that ran along the cub's hind leg. On the third day of looking after the cub, she entered the little clearing near the lake, and saw the dark cub and the lightest wolf. At first, the grown wolf growled at her, but the injured cub yipped and yowled at her mother, as the dark cub stared at Stiles' mom in silence, and then the wolf stopped growling. She bowed to Stiles' mom, and said, “Thank you.”

After that, Stiles' mom said that she would always spot one of the wolves at least once every time she went into the woods. She smiled, nudged him with an elbow, and pointed into the distance, where the dark silhouette of an adolescent wolf could be seen.

She had hundreds of stories, about the people of the woods, and how they didn't often look like people, but sometimes they did, and they would run with her and play with her and bring her the first ripe berries of the summer and taught her how to care for the woods. She had the spark, they told her. The spark of what, she always asked, but they just laughed and asked her to tell another story.

Stiles grew up believing the stories. When his mom took him into the woods with her, she always pointed out the wolf that ghosted them, and Stiles would wave enthusiastically to the wolf. He would whistle cheerfully back to the birds, a poor imitation of his mom's fluent birdsong. He learned how to swim in that lake, flanked by the otters until he could swim well enough to play tag with them; they cheated outrageously. He did his homework leaning against the solid oak tree that trailed a faded piece of ribbon from the lowest branch, reading aloud only if the tree was less than ten yards away from where it was the previous day. He teased the chameleon sunning itself on the rocks by the lake, and was teased in return by the dog. He never saw the people of the woods in their people form, but that never bothered him. He could touch them, mostly, and he played with them, all but the wolves. They only came near enough for Stiles to see and wave to, but never came any closer once he had spotted them.

Then his mom got sick. Really sick. She stopped going to the woods with him. She stopped humming in the kitchen. She stopped making herbal remedies to sell to the neighbours. She stopped telling him stories.

The day she was hospitalized, Stiles ran into the woods, and it was like the woods had disappeared. There were still trees and rocks, but they were just grey and brown and faded and cold. He couldn't hear any birds. He couldn't find the oak. The lake was murky, and empty, and cold. The dog and chameleon and goat and horse were nowhere to be seen. He heard the wolves howl, once and low, sorrow filling their voices, but he didn't see them. Not any of them.

He left the woods, and his mom died the next day.

The last thing she said to him, when they were alone, was, “Take care of the woods, and the woods will take care of you. I love you.”

He got to say “I promise. I love you, too,” before the heart monitor let out a long, steady squeal.

He tried. Stiles tried to take care of the woods, like his mom told him to. But the woods stayed grey and brown and faded and cold. He usually ended up sitting under a tree -- not the oak, he still couldn't find the oak with the faded blue ribbon tied to its lowest branch -- and cried, and he thought the trees cried with him, their leaves falling gently around him, even though it was only early summer. He never saw or heard any of the people of the forest after his mom died. Except once, when he cried himself into exhaustion, only a few days after he and his dad buried her, Stiles thought he felt a ratty blanket being drawn over him. Stiles thought he felt a warm, furry body curl up in the hollow of his belly. Stiles thought he remembered grasping two handfuls of thick, dark grey fur, and being allowed to cry into that fur. When he woke up again, to the sound of his dad calling worriedly into the twilight trees, the wolf was gone, but the tattered blanket remained draped over Stiles. He folded the blanket up, laid it at the base of the tree, and whispered his thanks into the woods. He thought he saw a pair of glowing blue eyes in the distance, but it could have been a trick of the light.

As he got older, Stiles stopped going into the woods behind his house. He read a lot. He talked even more. He joined the lacrosse team when he entered his freshman year of high school. He went to university, studying English literature, with a major in folklore and a minor in Classical mythology. He moved back home after graduating with no idea of what to do for the rest of his life.

There were new faces in town, when he moved back.

The Argents, a predominately gun-happy family, with the exception of Allison, who was just as terrifying with a compound bow as her father was with a rifle. Predictably, Scott fell absolutely head over heels in love with her, and not so predictably, she in return with him. The Argents had moved in just after Stiles left for university, into the Jefferson's old house.

Isaac Lahey, the new swim team coach, a cheerful man who acted like a little boy at time, who could outswim anyone.

Erica Reyes, a beautiful, witty woman who debated like the devil and sang like an angel, and only good things seemed to follow her presence.

Vernon Boyd, a quiet, solid man, who made exquisite wood carvings, and laughed with the sound of summer. 

Jackson Whittemore, engaged to Lydia Martin, Stiles' long-term forever-ago crush which died a merciless death in high school. The man absolutely delighted in teasing and tormenting people, but would stop with a sharp word from Lydia.

The Hales, a family that was at once raucous and serious at the same time, and possessed an almost feral beauty. Apparently, they all lived deep in the forest, which Stiles felt a strange pang of envy when he heard that, and must have been home-schooled, because Stiles had never seen any of them in school or in the yearbooks.

Stiles didn't go back into the woods. Instead, he got a job at the bookstore in town, because really, what else is an Arts degree with a focus on literature and folklore good for? He wrote in his spare time, polishing the children's book he'd been working on for the last few years. It was set in a forest. When he worked, he organised the shelves and manned the cranky cash register that only he seemed to have the knack of. He started a children's program, after school every Tuesday and Thursday, and a reading club, on Saturday evenings, and a writing workshop, on Sunday mornings. He convinced his manager that the store could afford to buy the newly empty former-cafe next door, knock down he connecting wall, expand the books into half the space and use the other half to open up a coffee shop. Nothing fancy, just plain coffees and teas and maybe some cookies, and plenty of comfy chairs and settees for people to curl up in with a good book.

Business increased by half since Stiles started working at the bookstore, and doubled when the coffee shop hit the ground running. Stiles was promoted to assistant manager, and they hired three summer students just to keep up.

By Stiles' fourth year after university, he moved into an apartment by himself, he stood as Scott's Best Man as the vet-in-training married the stunning Allison Argent, and he published his first book. His manager forced him to take the vacation time he had accrued, and he spent two days just staring at his ceiling.

On the third day, he went back to the woods.

He told himself that he was just going back to his dad's house to pick up things he had forgotten in the move, but really, he was going into the forest. He took his backpack, stuffed a hoodie in the bottom, an apple and a bottle of water, plus his notebook that he took everywhere with him. Once he walked far enough into the woods that he couldn't see his dad's house anymore, Stiles grinned and started running. He flashed past the lake, startled birds into flight, and swung around the oak that had an old ribbon tied to one of its branches. He stopped by that tree, sliding down to sit at its base, and caught his breath as he ate his apple. He threw the core deep into the trees, and ended up spilling most of his water on the roots, because he left the open water bottle by his hip and jarred it with his throw. Shrugging, he pulled out his notebook and pen, where he had a new story he was playing around with, but wasn't quite working out. He read it aloud, because one thing he learned from his English degree is that reading things aloud forced you to hear the mistakes. He filled at least six pages with scene snippits and character development and editorial markings and sarcastic notes to himself about cliche plot points. He pulled on his hoodie as the afternoon progressed.

It was dusk when he heard the gunshot. He took off running, and skidded to a stop when he came across a woman toting a shotgun. She had it broken over her arm as she reloaded, muttering to herself. Stiles recognized her as Allison's aunt from the wedding.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he snarled at her, startling her into dropping a bullet. “There's no hunting in town limits, you could _hit_ something!”

“That's the idea,” she returned. Kate, that was her name, Stiles remembered suddenly. He could feel a character like her slide into the empty space where his story's antagonist should be. “Been seeing a wolf creep around town limits, it needs to be put down.”

“There aren't any wolves in California.”

Kate levelled a look at Stiles. “So says Little Red Riding Hood.”

Startled, Stiles glanced at his hoodie, which was red.

“Go home, Little Red,” she smirked at him. “Bring your treats to your granny. I'll make sure you don't get eaten by the Big Bad Wolf.”

Stiles stiffened, scowling at her. “I'd be more worried about being arrested, if I were you.”

Kate merely finished reloading her gun, and swept away back towards town, completely ignoring Stiles. He gritted his teeth, and stomped his way back through the woods. He found his backpack and notebook, but the oak he had been leaning against was another four yards further away. Stiles frowned, picked up his things, and headed back into civilization. It seemed less civil than the woods, with people like Kate running around.

The next day, he returned to the woods, and went back to where he had found Kate. He guessed at her angle, and headed in that direction, deeper into the woods than he had ever gone before. Against all odds, he found the tree that had bullet wounds, bleeding sap down its trunk, and he patched it up, sealing it with mud and clay like the website he found had said, protecting the tender inner core. He laughed as just as he was finished, a shower of leaves fell around him. An acorn nailed him square on the head, and he laughed harder. “Oh, is _that_ the thanks I get for bandaging your wounds? Abuse, I say!” He followed the sound of water, and found the stream that fed into the lake, and cleaned his hands of mud and clay. He followed the stream to the lake, sat down nearby and started writing, the words flowing easier than they had in months. That acorn to the noggin really loosened up the tight threads of plot that he was having trouble untangling.

Every day for the rest of his three week vacation, he spent in the woods behind his dad's house. Once, he found a pile of garbage that someone just left in the middle of the forest, so Stiles got a garbage bag from his dad's and a pair of leather gloves, and cleaned it up. Once, an otter got stuck his leg stuck between two rocks, and Stiles freed him, then spent the afternoon gently stroking the tame otter who curled up next to Stiles, just like a cat. Once, a bird gracelessly fell out of a tree, landing awkwardly on her pale blue wing, and Stiles righted her, gently checking her wing for injuries, and keeping her company while she recovered from her fall. Once, the oak lost its lowest branch to a thunderstorm overnight, and it seemed to droop forlornly toward its branch until Stiles sealed the broken limb and retied the ribbon to the next lowest branch. Once, a dog got loose in the woods, running up to Stiles, panting happily as he planted wet, muddy paws on Stiles' jeans, so Stiles called the number on his collar, and was completely surprised to hear Lydia answer.

Unrelated to his treks in the woods, the new faces in town started being really friendly with Stiles. Peter Hale started flirting with Stiles over coffee and tea, and generally creeped Stiles out, because why was this married dad of two complimenting Stiles on his tidiness so often? Weird. Isaac, limping into the store with a sprained ankle, came in with the express purpose of buying Stiles' first book, and they spent an hour talking about magic realism and its place in modern literature. Erica sauntered in, bought him his favourite tea, hugged him and kissed his cheek, then flounced out of the store, leaving him absolutely gobsmacked. Boyd, with a splinted pinky finger and his signature blue ring switched to his other pinky finger, started coming to Stiles' book club and writer's workshop. Jackson, under extreme sufferance, passed along the kiss to the cheek Lydia gave to Stiles for finding her errant dog, but his barbs weren't as sharp as they could be anymore.

Derek Hale was spotted more often in town, but he didn't speak to anyone. He came in two or three times a week to the bookstore, after Stiles got back from vacation, with his sister Laura at first, but later alone. He bought a book every time, handing over crisp bills and shiny coins, and only ever nodding his thanks at Stiles. He bought Stiles' book, but then, most people in town had purchased his book. Derek also bought Gaiman, and Mallory, and Leicht, and Salvatore, and Lackey, and Rowling, and Starbuck, so Stiles guessed Derek just really liked fantasy stuff. The man's eyes practically glowed blue when he discovered that Leicht had a third book to her series out already.

Stiles continued to visit the woods, even after his vacation. His dad's only response was, “Just like when you were little. Your mom and I practically had to drag you out of there by your feet, not that your mom was much better than you.”

He started seeing dark flashes of movement, just at his peripherals. Once, he thought he saw a wolf, staring at him before disappearing in a swirl of leaves. Not turning _into_ a swirl of leaves, that'd be ridiculous. Right?

The day he finished the rough draft of his story, he heard another series of gunshots in the woods, along with a triumphant cry that was definitely Kate Argent's voice. He took off running again, skidded to a stop when he came across her exiting the woods. There was a satisfied smirk on her lips, and she winked at Stiles. “Got 'im this time. I doubt he'll last the night. The neighbourhood's pet population is safe once more.”

Stiles glared at her and called his dad, reporting the incident as Kate smugly got into her SUV and drove away. Ending the call, Stiles headed to his dad's house, stuffed his backpack full of gauze and disinfectant and whatever else might be useful to an injured animal. Thanks to Scott and Dr Deaton, Stiles had more than a passing knowledge of what to do for injured animals. He figured a wolf was just a more dangerous version of a dog. A big, toothy, injured, cornered dog. Yeah.

Stiles found the wolf. It was a big specimen, a lot bigger than what Wikipedia said the average size was for male wolves. Then again, Wikipedia said wolves didn't live in California, and yet. The wolf was a dark grey, with stunning husky-blue eyes, and barely conscious as he curled up under the oak tree with the ribbon. Stiles approached him cautiously, not making any sudden movements but not sneaking up on the injured wolf. He could see that the wolf was shot through his right foreleg, with a graze along his ribs and leg hind leg, and bleeding freely. Without help, Kate would be right, and the wolf wouldn't survive the night.

Not on Stiles' watch.

He swung his backpack down beside him, and reached out slowly to the wolf's flank. He got a curled lip and a half-hearted snap in his general direction, but the big wolf didn't make any move to actually bite Stiles or try to get away, so Stiles did his best to gently patch up the wolf. Disinfectant on everything, which made the wolf flinch, but he just flopped over on the ground and bore everything in silence. Not even a whimper.

“You're just like this guy in town,” Stiles said quietly, wrapping gauze around the wounds on the wolf's legs. The wolf looked up to watch Stiles steadily. “He seems like the suffer in silence type, too. Not that I've ever heard him make a sound either. He just . . . watches everything. Reads a lot.” He tied the gauze around the last of the wolf's wounds, leaving the graze on the ribs alone because he didn't have enough gauze, and sat back, arms wrapped around his knees. The wolf watched him expectantly. “Do you like stories too?” he asked the wolf, then chuckled to himself, closing his eyes in thought and completely missing the wolf nod. “Talking to a wolf. Sure, why not. I'll tell you about my new story.”

Stiles wove his tale to the wolf, who appeared to be hanging on every word, and when Stiles was finished, his head full of things to tweak in the next draft, the wolf shakily got to his feet. Stiles held his breath, tensed to move away if need be, but the wolf seemed to ignore the potential human threat, and limped away from Stiles. After a few steps, Stiles swore the wolf stopped, turned to face him, bowed his head, and said, “Thank you”, before melting away into a swirl of leaves.

Stiles stared at the spot the wolf disappeared for a good half-hour, before his cellphone rang. His dad, wanting to know when he could come in to give his statement about the weapons discharge in the woods.

Stiles left the woods, slowly picking his way back to civilization.

Kate was arrested, and all her firearms found to be unregistered. Stiles finished his second draft and sent it off to his editor. Scott and Allison announced that they were pregnant. Stiles' manager told Stiles that she'd be retiring next year, and he was to be her replacement. All this good news, but Stiles didn't really feel most of it because of one thing.

Derek stopped coming to the bookstore.

For two weeks, Stiles didn't see Derek. Stiles didn't see any of the Hales. He never thought he'd miss creepy Peter's aggressive flirtation, or Laura's suggestive eyebrow waggle over salacious gossip they used to share over tea, or the Peter's twins running rampant through the store because their father was so focused on not-so-subtly propositioning Stiles. He never thought he'd miss Derek's unending silence.

Until the day Derek came back.

He was limping, but only as an after thought, like it was an injury mostly healed. He had gauze taped to his biceps, peeking out of the sleeve of his t-shirt. He was scowling ferociously at his sister, who was taking great delight in poking his side and making him flinch. Laura flounced over to the shelf that Stiles was stocking, and announced grandly, “I heard from a little birdy that you're coming out with a new book.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at her exuberant smile. “I just sent it to my editor last week. How did--?”

“I'll never tell,” she sing-songed at him, and threw a wink back at Derek, who scowled even deeper.

“Oh, hey, Derek, we got a new book in yesterday,” Stiles said, anything to get the man to stop scowling, Jesus, he had the facial structure of a Greek god he should not be frowning. “New author, but it sounds like your kind of thing. Here,” and he plucked the book in question off the shelf, handing it to Derek, who looked interested and immediately started reading the summary on the inside dust cover.

“Ugh, you _had_ to give him a new book,” Laura bemoaned. “I swear, we'll need to add another room to the library if this keeps up. He never _shuts up_ about his books.”

Derek threw a dirty look at Laura, and a quick upturning of his lips at Stiles, who was momentarily stunned at the almost-smile Derek threw his way.

“I work in a book store, Laura. _And_ I write,” Stiles pointed out. “It's my _job_ to get people to buy books. Speaking of, Derek, you can have that one, on the house. A get-well present, for whatever happened to you.”

Derek looked startled for a moment, throwing a glance at Laura, who looked equally perplexed, and then tucked the book close to his chest and said, “Thank you.”

His voice was precisely what Stiles would have expected from Derek. Quiet, but kind of gruff, and very exact. He was a man who knew the value of words, even if he showed that value in the opposite way that Stiles did: Stiles spent his freely, shared among everyone, but Derek gave his out rarely, to those important enough to hear them.

The Hale siblings left the store, and Stiles spent the entire afternoon and evening trying to remember why Derek's voice sounded so familiar, since those were the first words Derek had ever said to him.

At three forty-six in the morning, Stiles remembered. Those _were_ the first words Derek had ever said to Stiles. In the woods. Two weeks ago. As a wolf.

Stiles threw on his hoodie over his pyjamas, and practically ran to his jeep, and tore down empty streets to his dad's house. The cruiser was in the driveway, so Stiles parked a couple of houses down, then hurried to the woods.

The full moon shone overhead, but Stiles knew the woods well enough that he didn't even need that to find his way. He didn't need to go far, because below the oak tree with the ribbon, currently rooted next to the lake, was the wolf Stiles had patched up two weeks previously. He watched Stiles' approached with sharp eyes, and barely moved as Stiles drew close. A few feet away, Stiles stopped, and said softly into the darkness, “Derek?”

There was no disbelief in his voice. Not with the genre he primarily wrote in. Not with his childhood filled with the stories his mom told him. Not when the wolf stood and in a swirl of leaves became Derek Hale.

A very naked Derek Hale. With healing wounds in the exact same places as the wolf.

Stiles looked up and laughed nervously. “Do you _have_ to be naked?”

“Wolves don't wear clothes,” Derek said. Nudity didn't bother him in the least, apparently. And why would it, Stiles thought hysterically, because he's a shape-shifting werewolf who sometimes turns into leaves and wind and summer sunlight. Derek frowned at Stiles, maybe hearing the way Stiles heart was beating way too fast, or his breath coming too short, or maybe Stiles was just babbling away like he always did when he was nervous and completely out of his depth.

If he was babbling, Derek cut him off by kissing him. Just a gentle press of lips against his, a hand tenderly cradling the back of his head, while the other trailed down his arm to lace their fingers together.

When Derek pulled back, his amazing eyes watching Stiles as intently as the wolf ever did, Stiles asked, “Why me?”

Derek smiled, a brilliant, content smile, full of dazzling teeth and wow Stiles wanted to be kissing Derek again, very much. So he did, opening his mouth to Derek and drawing his tongue out, and running his hands through Derek's wild hair, and he had to pull away before he got a little too into the kissing. But Derek had other ideas apparently, pulling Stiles close, and Stiles could feel Derek's warmth just soaking through his clothes.

“You take care of the woods, and the woods will take care of you,” Derek said quietly, exactly the same as Stiles' mother said to him just before she died. Just the same as Stiles' mother, though in a different context, Derek continued with, “I love you.”

Stiles kissed Derek again, and Derek tumbled them both down to the forest floor.

A year later found Stiles moving into the Hale house to live with Derek, and he found he loved that house almost as much as he loved Derek, because it was in the middle of the forest, and it had a _library_ , Laura wasn't kidding. He was the manager of the bookstore, and hired Peter's twins for the summer. His second book was published, and his first nominated for the Newbery Medal. He never once questioned the weirdness that was his life, because werewolves and dryads and shapeshifting otters and birds and dogs were things that had always surrounded him and always would surround him, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Because his mom's stories were all true.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, folklore/mythology time:  
> \- Hales are all still werewolves, but only in the technical sense, in that they are (hu)man and wolf. Also, forest guardians.  
> \- Stiles and his mom are some sort of instinctual shaman/healer/medicine people. Human plus, kinda. They protect the forest guardians, and are protected in turn.  
> \- Isaac is an North American River Otter, but think [selkie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selkie) (Irish/Scottish). Sheds his otter skin to become human.  
> \- Erica is a Mountain Bluebird, but can shapeshift too. The [Bluebird of Happiness](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluebird_of_happiness) (worldwide) is a symbol of renewal, happiness, prosperity, &c.  
> \- Boyd is a tree. I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself! Half [hamadryad](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamadryad) (Greek) and half [ghillie dhu](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghillie_Dhu) (Celtic). Hamadryads are a type of dryad that is affected by the state of their tree: it gets hurt, they get hurt. Ghillie dhu are forest spirits that are quiet and kind of shy, kind to children, and dark. Dryads are also specifically connected to oak trees, which was completely coincidental.  
> \- Jackson is a [púca](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P%C3%BAca) (Irish/Welsh) and [kelpie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kelpie) (Scottish/Irish) mix. Kelpies are generally horse-shaped river spirits who often take people on wild rides, and kill them. Púca can be a horse, dog, goat, rabbit, human, &c. They also do wild rides, but not to death. They enjoy terrifying and confusing people, but are usually benevolent.  
> \- Lydia's another human plus, who can see through glamouries. Jackson tried to steal her away when she was little, but she stopped that nonsense in a hurry.  
> \- The Argents are all human, no plus. Allison's still a sweetheart. Kate's still a bitch.  
> \- I have mythologies for Scott and Danny, too, but they didn't really fit in. They're less naturalised than the rest of the Beacon Hills crew, their parents only recently bringing them into the forest community. Scott would be half [nagual](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nagual) (Mesoamerican) through his mom, and only discovers it by accident shortly before Allison gives birth. Nagual are shapeshifting witches, who can be good or bad, depending on the person. The animal form depends on their spirit animal. Danny is the son of [Lona](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lona_%28mythology%29) and ['Aikanaka](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aikanaka_%28mythology%29) (Hawai'ian). Lona is a moon goddess, one of the four main Hawai'ian deities, who married human chief 'Aikanaka and had (probably) several children with him before he died of old age. Danny'd just be a kind of wandering demi-god who settles in Beacon Hills because why the hell not.


End file.
